


An Honest Mistake

by Catsintheattic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parenting, Case Fic, Character Death, Child Abuse, Dysfunctional Family, Episode: s01e18 Something Wicked, Family, Family Drama, Father Figures, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Parental Discipline, Parents & Children, Pre-Series, Sirens, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:02:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catsintheattic/pseuds/Catsintheattic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The supernatural has always taken a special interest in Sam. And Dean has always been willing to sacrifice himself and save his family.</p><p>Written for the Summer Challenge at the LJ community spn_spankings for Team Parental. This is not a fluffy parental spanking fic. Quite the opposite.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Honest Mistake

**Prologue**

On a stifling evening in May 1989, two weeks after Sammy’s birthday, in the little town of Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, Dean walked out of his family’s motel room and into a game hall, where he played Moon Patrol until the proprietor tossed him out. He made it back just in time to witness a shtriga feeding on his little brother. Moments later, his father barreled into the room and ripped the sawed-off out of Dean’s hands.

***

John had barely seconds to chase the shtriga away and prevent the worst. His youngest was safe.

He took his boys to Pastor Jim, blaming himself for leaving them in the vicinity of a monster. Sammy was sleeping in the backseat, still drained. And John couldn’t even look at Dean, pale and silent for the whole two hours it took them to drive to Blue Earth, Minnesota.

Unfortunately, John didn’t make it back in time. The shtriga was gone, and he couldn’t prevent the deaths of all the children that had been attacked by the monster. It was easy enough to blame Dean for acting like the ten-year-old he was and leaving the room to go out and have some fun. If Dean also felt guilty about the fact that his father had to leave the hunt to take care of his sons and didn’t manage to kill the monster – it certainly helped focus Dean’s attention on the job from then on. 

And John made sure that Dean would never, ever again forget the responsibilities he had toward his brother.

 

**September 15th, 1990**

John pushed Dean from his lap and placed him between the V of his legs. He held Dean by the shoulders, shaking him slightly.

“Last chance: Where are the keys to the Impala?”

Dean’s gaze was firmly on the floor. He looked as chastised as any boy who’d just spent a painful time over his father’s knee, but his answer didn’t change. “I don’t know. I didn’t take them.”

John dug his fingers into his son’s shoulders, felt the thin layers of skin give way to reveal the fragile bones beneath. His grip was hard enough to make Dean wince. At eleven and eight months, Dean’s body was a combination of skinny and muscular, but overall he was still a child. 

Not that it mattered. John’s job came with responsibilities that made no exception for children. And Dean knew it. So John had basically no idea why his son had chosen to suddenly act up. The keys to the Impala, placed on the desk in the living room of their currently rented ramshackle two-story-house, had disappeared shortly before John wanted to head out to assist Pastor Jim with a rouge chupacabra. John had never hunted one of those before, and was eager not to miss the experience. Especially since Jim had called him just to let him in on the details of how to finish the fucker off. 

But here he was, barely showered and rested after hunting and killing a siren the day before, the Impala re-packed and ready to go, but the car keys were nowhere to be found and his stubborn eleven-year-old couldn’t even be convinced by a thorough spanking to confess his crime and return the keys.

“Dean. Eyes on me.” 

Dean’s eyes were red, and there were still tear tracks drying on his face. He pressed his lips together but couldn’t prevent a quiver. If John hadn’t known better, he would have felt sorry for him.

“Go stand in the corner. I have no words to tell you how disappointed I am and no time to deal with you right now. I’ll be back in a few hours. If you tell me why you took the keys and give them back when I return, all you’ll get is another round over my knee. Or you can decide to be stubborn, and it’ll be a trip to the shed, with a spanking and the paddle on the bare on top of it.”

Dean’s eyes widened. Paddling him on the bare had never been necessary before, and John honestly hoped that the threat would still be enough to nudge Dean into manning up and owning his mistake. He didn’t enjoy beating his sons. But he was on his own in a dangerous business, and he had to make sure that his children understood the principles of hunting: research, attention, rank, and discipline.

***

When John returned, the sun was already down. The chupacabra was dead, a smooth kill by Jim. Burning the body had been hard work, and John was covered in dirt and soot from the fire. But he had still taken an extra hour to ask Jim all about the particulars of this monster and to carefully copy the answers into his book: where to find it and how it lived, and how else to kill it besides beheading.

Every bone in his body ached. Some days, even though he’d managed to kill the monster, he felt like he would never be able to keep up with them, much less find the evil bastard that had killed Mary. One siren and one chupacabra down, and yet he knew his work was far from done. Jim had received a warning that five children in a neighboring town were wasting away. Not the coma-like states caused by a shtriga, though. The symptoms looked more like malnourishment and neglect, but the numbers clearly indicated the influence of a supernatural killer. Since John lived closer, he had promised to take the case. He would start looking into it first thing tomorrow.

John stepped from the porch into the small hall, careful not to make any noise. Through the door, he saw Dean standing in the corner of the living room. The boy’s shoulders were hunched forward and he was swaying lightly, as if on the verge of falling asleep. John closed the door behind him with a crack, and Dean’s posture changed immediately to standing at attention.

“Dad? Is that you?” Dean minutely turned his head, trying to identify the intruder.

John stepped into the living room and lit the lamp. “Keep your eyes on the corner.” 

“Yes, sir.” Dean’s shoulders relaxed slightly at hearing his father’s voice, but his back remained stiff and upright.

John sat on the couch. “Come over here.”

Dean stopped two steps in front of him and waited, his arms stiffly at his sides, his gaze fixed on his father’s face.

“Report.”

“I left the corner. But only to make Sam dinner. And I sent him to bed at eight.”

“Did you eat?”

“No, sir.”

John nodded. No dinner for a boy who was still being punished, as was the rule.

“So, what do you have to say to me about the keys?”

Dean’s face lost all its color. He slowly shook his head. “I … I don’t know. Honestly, Dad, I swear.”

Stubborn as dog shit on freshly cleaned tires. John’s hands were clutching at Dean’s t-shirt before he had time to think it through. 

“You know I promised you a trip to the shed if you insisted on lying to me.”

Dean nodded. “’M not lying,” he mumbled, almost inaudible.

John’s grip tightened, pulling Dean forward until his face was right in front of John’s. “Don’t try to fool me. Who else could’ve taken them?”

Dean’s left shoulder twitched in a suppressed shrug, and he let out a low breath but otherwise made no sound.

“Answer me!”

“Wasn’t Sammy. Wasn’t me,” Dean said between clenched teeth.

John suppressed the urge to take his frustration out on Dean’s ass, right there and then. Instead he released the boy’s t-shirt from his grip, staring at the dark smudges his hands had left on the fabric. Dark soot stood out against the white cotton like blood on a body.

“I’m too tired and angry to deal with you right now. Go to bed. I expect you at the shed tomorrow at six-hundred.”

It was in that moment that Dean’s stomach growled loudly. Dean blushed right to the tips of his ears and looked to the floor, mortified.

John let out a mirthless chuckle. “If that noise keeps you awake, you think about why you are going to bed on an empty stomach.”

Dean nodded toward the floor, then forced his gaze upwards to meet his father’s and repeated the motion. “Yes, sir.” He slipped from the room, and John heard him creak up the stairs to the boys’ bedroom.

 

**September 16th, 1990**

The alarm on John’s watch beeped at half past five, and he fumbled blindly in the darkness for the knob to turn it off. He kept his eyes shut for just one more moment, wishing he didn’t have to get up. His body ached from yesterday’s heavy lifting, and his heart was heavy at the thought of Dean. But it had to be done, and there was no point in delaying and making him wait any longer than necessary. So John got out of bed and went through his bathroom routines as on any other morning.

When he opened the door to the shed, the naked light-bulb was lit and Dean stood already waiting inside. He wore an old t-shirt over sweat pants, and his gaze kept darting between John’s face and the interior of the shed – an old work-bench and gardening tools, a wheelbarrow and a few bales of straw, sunken-in with age.

“Morning, Dad.” His voice was soft, and he repeatedly crumpled and released the edge of his t-shirt while trying to keep his hands at his sides. 

“Morning, Dean.” John waited another moment for Dean to calm down, watched as the boy pulled himself together to stand still, his eyes now fixed on the wooden paddle in John’s hand. It was made of ash, the blade about seven inches long and slightly wider than a man’s hand, with the same easy reach. John preferred it for those few times when his hand just wasn’t hard and insensitive enough to match the crime.

The straw bales were too old to sit on, but John remembered a wooden chopping block from when he’d checked out the shed on the day he’d rented the house. It stood opposite the work-bench, and John walked over, sat down, and placed the paddle on the ground beside him. 

“Come here,” he said, but Dean was already at his side, a nervous swallow in his throat but not trying to argue or to delay the inevitable. With a nod from John, Dean pulled down his sweats; another nod and he also removed his boxers, pushing the fabric down to his ankles. John tipped him forward and over his knees, making sure he had easy access. The wooden block was high enough that Dean wasn’t able to place his hands on the floor to support himself, and John felt his son’s tentative grip on his jean-clad legs. 

Any explanations of why they were here had already been given; Dean knew why he was being punished, and therefore John lifted his hand and brought it down on Dean’s ass without another word. For a normal offense, he would usually start lighter and increase the strengths of his blows. This time, the nature of the crime warranted the full force right from the start. After the first blow, Dean yelped and scooted forward. John stopped mid-motion and placed a heavy left hand on the small of Dean’s back. 

“Anything wrong?” John was certain that Dean would understand it as the reprimand it was meant to be.

“No, sir. I’m sorry,” Dean whispered and wriggled back into position.

“Make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

In answer, Dean clutched more firmly at John’s jeans and placed one hand on the chopping block for extra stability. 

John struck a second time, a deliberate aim at the underside of Dean’s ass. His left hand stayed where it was, pressing down, helping Dean to stay in place. 

Dean hissed, and his grip on John’s leg tightened, but he didn’t budge. Satisfied with Dean’s submission, John picked up a rhythm in the rise and fall of his hand.

He placed his strokes evenly over Dean’s ass and thighs, until the skin had turned from rosy to beet-red and he could feel the heat coming off it even without touching. At some point during his spanking, Dean had started to sniffle, and between the smacks John could clearly hear the hiccupping gasps for air that told him Dean’s nose was too full of snot and tears to let him breathe properly.

It was time for the paddle. 

When John reached for it, he felt Dean tense up. The muscles in his ass and thighs were trembling, his breath was flying, and the pulse on the side of his neck was beating fast. 

“I’m going to give you ten.”

“Nnnggg—“ 

An almost inaudible _No_ that was cut off before fully spoken and immediately followed by deep breaths as Dean tried to prepare himself for what was coming.

John waited, paddle in hand, until Dean had calmed down enough for the tremors in his backside to lessen.

Four went down on Dean’s ass. Another two went onto his thighs. Then, John tipped him forward another inch and placed the last four over his sit bones.

When it was over, Dean’s whole body shook, and he sobbed without restraint. John let him cry for a few more minutes, then gently guided him onto his feet and helped him to pull up his boxers and sweats. With the hem of his shirt, he cleaned the tears and snot off of Dean’s face. The skin was rough from crying, but Dean held still while he hiccupped for air. 

“There. It’s all right now. You’re forgiven, and it won’t have to be repeated, as long as you remember your lesson and don’t lie to me again.”

Dean sniffled and wiped at the tears that kept leaking from his eyes. 

“Let’s go back to the house and get you cleaned up. Then we’ll have breakfast. You must be hungry, and I’m sure Sam’s already waiting for us. Once we’ve eaten, you can give back the keys.”

Dean’s face went white. He nodded miserably and hung his head while he followed John out of the shed and toward the house.

***

Sam was indeed waiting for them. He had tried to set the table, and John praised him for the effort even though he’d drunk all the milk and they had to make do with beans and eggs with toast.

Dean kept pushing the food around on his plate, obviously too distraught to eat much. Normally, Sam was upset when his big brother had been punished, but this time he kept ignoring Dean and talked animatedly about a children’s cook-book that had caught his attention. Given that the boys had had a bit of a quarrel the day before, John wasn’t too surprised. Even at the age of seven, Sam had perfected sulking to an art form.

Despite the radio silence between his boys, John was still happy to enjoy the exploring self of his youngest and gladly accepted Sam’s offer of his spoon full of beans. Sam had spiced them up with every sauce available in the household, and John secretly grimaced at the taste. It would still take a few more years before Sam was able to prepare them a decent breakfast. But his delight at John sampling the result of Sam’s “cooking” made John force down another bite from Sam’s offered spoon.

Dean, who hadn’t said a word until now, spoke up. “Aww, Sammy, this looks great. Let me have a try, too!” He smiled at Sam and reached out with his spoon to dig it into the beans on Sam’s plate.

“No!” Sam snatched the plate away from Dean. “You’ve been bad! You don’t get any!”

The smile froze on Dean’s face as he stared at his little brother. “What’s got into you? I’m not good enough for you to share your precious beans with?”

“Beans are for me and Dad. Not for you.” Sam stuck out his tongue. 

Dean threw his spoon onto the table. “You can keep your stupid beans!”

“Boys! Cut it out, both of you.” John stood. “Since you can start squabbling, you’re obviously done eating. Sam, Dean, clear the table. And then, Dean, I want you to go and bring me the keys.”

Dean set down the plates into the sink, hard. “Sir?”

“The keys. I told you to give them back to me after breakfast.” John felt irritation nagging at him from the back of his mind.

“I got them back while you were in the shed,” Sam piped up. The keys dangled from his held out little fist. His small face was dimpled, all proud and eager.

John bent down to ruffle his hair. “That’s my boy.” 

“I found them in Dean’s duffle.” 

“You did not!” Dean swiveled around with a splash of water. The look on his face was incredulous and hurt rather than guilty. But John’s temper rose so fast that he had no intention of paying attention to the finer details of Dean’s psyche. 

“Dean? You hear that? Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Liar! What _is_ it with you this morning, Sammy?”

“Don’t call me Sammy!”

“Dean! Look at me and answer my question. Did you know about the keys?”

Dean flinched and looked from his brother to his father, making unsteady contact with John’s gaze. “I don’t know, sir.” He shrugged. “They must have fallen in. Slid from the hook and fell into my duffel, I guess.”

“And you wouldn’t have, by any chance, buried them there to get them out of the way so that I wouldn’t take off?”

Dean shook his head. “No, sir. I …” 

“What?”

Dean fidgeted. “I would never mess with … your job. I … I told you, yesterday, when you asked me. That I didn’t hide the keys. Sir.”

“And another round over my knee won’t change your story?”

John knew that he was pushing Dean, who still had to be sore from this morning’s punishment. And indeed, Dean’s eyes were moist, and he swallowed before letting out a cautious “I told you the truth.” 

John closed the distance to the sink with three long strides, grabbed Dean by the arm, pulled a chair away from the kitchen table and sat down, Dean over his lap. Dean yelped in surprise. John messily dragged down his sweats and boxers, baring his son’s buttocks for the second time that day. Dean was bruised all over from the encounter with the paddle not two hours ago, and John felt a twinge of unease at the sight. But he wasn’t going to let Dean get away with lying, and he started interrogating his son, every other word accompanied by a hard, methodical swat. 

“So why … did they show up … in your duffle … today … when you … couldn’t … find them yesterday … and I … had to … hot-wire … my … own … damn … car?” 

It didn’t take much for Dean to begin squirming and struggling for all he was worth. “You said … you said ... This morning, you said, I was forgiven.” His voice was high-pitched with distress. “Why … s-spank me … again?”

John jostled him into a more pliant position, with Dean’s head tilted forward, his hands scrabbling at the floor, and one of John’s legs securing both of Dean’s to prevent him from struggling. As an extra measure, he pressed his left hand down on Dean’s neck, pinning him effectively. Then, instead of resuming the spanking, he dug the fingers of his right hand deeply into the darkest bruises on Dean’s ass and thighs, causing a painful moan from Dean.

“You can’t lie to me, Dean. You know that.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean’s voice from the floor was trembling, already filling up with tears. “I didn’t. I didn’t take your keys and I didn’t know they were in my duffle.”

John raised his hand and delivered the next volley of swats, moving from the crown of Dean’s ass toward his thighs. Each time he struck flesh, he felt his son jerk under the blow. And each time, Dean’s posture grew a little more pliant, leaving him sniffling and limp over John’s lap.

“You didn’t give me any reason to believe you. You didn’t man up and come clean about how you did it and why. Not yesterday, not even this morning. Did you honestly believe I wouldn’t want the keys back? Or was your plan to sneak them back without me noticing? Do you think I’m stupid?”

Dean had given up trying to escape, his whole body going through a series of silent shakes. John took it as a sign that he was finally reaching his son’s conscience. He was glad for it. Dean’s skin burned under his hand, and the boy’s cries had turned into desperate sobs intermingled with gasps for air every time Dean failed to breathe through his clogged-up nose. John knew that it was time to finish the punishment, and so he delivered the following swats to the sensitive area where ass met thighs, each one more determined and stinging than the one before.

Dean’s voice was almost swallowed up by hiccups. “Please, Dad, please. I’m sorry. Please, no more.” And then, louder, as if he was hoping to have found the magic words. “Please. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“As you should be.” John let his hand hang by his side, feeling the burn in his palm and every fingertip. This was the point when he usually stopped, when Dean gave in and admitted defeat. Instead, he delivered three more strikes to the same area, full-force. And then another three on top of them. When he paused again, Dean was crying freely, but he had stopped pleading.

John pushed Dean off his lap and onto his feet. “Now, go and clean yourself up. And for heaven’s sake, stop crying. When you’re back, you can take care of the guns, give them the full treatment. That should keep you busy.”

Dean’s face was rough and swollen with tears, and he wiped his eyes and nose with his sleeve before he could speak, but he managed a lopsided smile nevertheless. “I’ll make them shine, sir. I promise.”

***

John spent the remainder of the day on research, working through his list of children, but came up with nothing useful. Mrs. Sanders, the school nurse, told him that all five children had come from good families with hard-working parents, parents that earned enough money to buy food and spoil their kids. And yet the three boys and two girl twins had fainted in class and had been admitted to the hospital to get them hooked up on fluids.

They were interrupted by a sports coach who helped a pale-faced teen limp into the room. “Richard just tripped on the track. You mind looking at his ankle?”

“Coach, really, I’m alright. I just need a little break and I’ll be fine,” the boy said. “Please, Mrs. Sanders, just let me wait it out?”

The nurse turned toward Richard and frowned at him. “Why don’t you let me decide if you need a break, a cold-pack, or a more thorough treatment?” She indicated the emergency cot. “Here, sit down.”

The boy pressed his lips together as the coach helped him onto the cot, but bent down obediently to lift up the leg of his tracksuit pants just high enough to reveal his ankle.

Mrs. Sanders knelt and bent over the injured foot. “Let’s have a look.” She tried to move the fabric out of the way to see better, but the boy kept clutching at his pants. 

“No, please … You don’t have to—“ 

Mrs. Sanders gently pushed his hands away. “It’s all right, I got it covered.”

The boy hissed in pain as she pushed the fabric up over his calf. His face turned crimson, and he dropped his gaze to the floor, while his hands clutched the edge of the cot. His ankle was swollen, but his calf was covered in thick welts that looked like switch marks. The sight made John queasy. He knew what a switch on bare skin felt like. He would never take one to his kids.

The frown on nurse Sanders’s face deepened, but her voice was calm and soothing. “Listen, Richard. I’m going to put some ice on your ankle, first. And then, if you feel up to it, we can talk.”

John knew that the interview was over.

“I’ll leave you to your job,” he said. “Thank you for your time.”

“I hope you find out what’s happening to those kids,” she told him over her shoulder, as he left the room.

 

**September 17th, 1990**

When John tried to talk to the parents, he found none of them at home. But the next morning, at the hospital, after he’d stood for minutes at the bed of each of the inflicted children and had watched their haggard looking little faces, his luck finally changed. When he left the last boy’s room, he spotted a sharply dressed woman, who was being dragged along the corridor by a wailing toddler. 

John waved at her and sped up his steps. “Ma’am? Excuse me? Would you mind answering a few questions about your child?”

She hesitated, and little boy increased his efforts to drag her away. “Ma’am? Please? I might be able to help.”

She stopped, watching him with hard eyes. “You don’t look like a doctor. How do you think you can help us?”

John flashed a badge. “I’m Health Inspector John Cubbard. My department has been following similar cases in other towns. We are trying to determine a common source.”

“All right.” She nodded. “Stefanie Winter. I don’t have long, since Tommy here isn’t comfortable in hospitals and I need to take him home.”

Stefanie Winter. So she had to be the mother of little Miranda and Melanie Winter. John pulled out his notepad and a pen. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Winter. What can you tell me about your daughters’ illness?”

It turned out it wasn’t much. The two eight-year-old girls had stopped eating from one day to the next. No amount of coaxing or threatening had helped. In the end, John ran out of questions that wouldn’t raise suspicions, and he had to watch Stefanie Winter walk away, carrying and shushing an obviously distressed little Tommy. The boy had increased his wailing shortly into the interview and only calmed down when it was clear that they would leave the hospital.

Many signs pointed toward a shtriga. And yet, the records of the doctors in the hospital were clean, and John hadn’t seen a shtriga’s long black fingerprints on any of the affected children’s houses. And while a shtriga usually tended to move through siblings, this monster so far had selected particular siblings out of every family, though John had failed to come up with a common denominator. 

Still, it never hurt to be prepared, and so he stocked up on a few basic supplies: rock salt, empty shells, hemp rope, and iron rounds, drove home and instructed Dean to spend all evening and the following day on turning them into weapons against monsters. 

 

**September 18th, 1990**

He was less than pleased when he looked for Dean in the evening of the next day and found him in the shed, still not done with his tasks. The hemp rope had been doused with salt and holy water and hung out to dry, but half of the shells were not yet filled with rock salt, and the caps of the ones that had been done were so loosely fitted that they threatened to come off when being loaded into the chamber.

“I tried. I tried to make them fit tighter, but the mechanism jammed and I couldn’t make it work.” Dean stood before him, his lower lip trembling and his eyes bright with fear. 

The number of children had risen from five to eight. Two of the freshly admitted kids had broken bones on top of signs of neglect, so it seemed like the monster was increasing its pressure on the victims. John had no time to babysit his eldest through another round of filling shells with rock salt. He needed to be out in the field, and he needed to rely on Dean to do his damn job.

John stepped closer, towering over Dean. “I showed you how to fix the mechanism. Twice. I know it jams, but that’s no excuse for you to deliver such sloppy work. Maybe I better wait until you’re up to the job before I rely on you.”

Dean flinched. “I’m sorry, sir. I really am.”

John regarded him in cold blood. “You’ll be even sorrier when I’m done with you.” He dragged Dean away from the work-bench and over to the chopping block. 

Dean started to struggle, his voice shrill with panic. “Dad, please, not the paddle, not again. I’ll stay up all night and finish the shells, but please, not the paddle.” 

John held Dean tighter, thrust him over the chopping block and pinned him down. “People are dying, Dean. _Children_ are dying.” He loosened his belt-buckle and pulled the belt from his jeans, one-handed. “And all you worry about is getting it with the paddle.” He doubled the belt, lifted his arm high and struck. 

The blow drove Dean against the chopping block and made him gasp, even with his jeans still on.

The next blow cracked diagonally over Dean’s ass and left thigh. Dean whimpered, and the sound grated on John’s ears, reminding him of all the children who lay in their white hospital beds, broken and silent.

“Be glad I’m not using the buckle.”

And then John started for real.

 

**September 19th, 1990**

The next morning, Dean had deep shadows under his eyes, and he moved slowly enough for Sammy to tease him about it while the boys cleared the table after breakfast.

“Hey, Dean, did someone put lead in your pants?” 

“Why don’t you shut it and mind your own business?” Dean shot his brother a look that could have curdled milk.

Sammy bounced between the kitchen table and the pantry, clearing plates and food off the table.

“Or was it Dad? He gave it to you real good last night, didn’t he? I could hear you screaming and sobbing like a little girl.” 

Dean bit his lip and glanced over at John, but John decided not to interrupt. Dean would have to learn to defend himself from his little brother without abusing his greater physical strength. If a few taunts were needed to motivate his eldest, then Dean would have to suffer them.

But Dean pulled his head between his shoulders and ignored Sam’s jab.

“Dad? I finished the job you asked me to do. It’s all laid out in the shed, if you want to check it out.”

John nodded. “I’ll take a look.”

In the shed, he found everything to his satisfaction; the best proof that the little ass whipping had served as an excellent motivator.

“Dad?” Dean lingered two steps behind John, eagerness and uncertainty warring on his face. 

John gave him an encouraging nod. “Yeah, what is it?”

Dean shuffled his feet. “I’m not sure. But … something’s wrong with Sam. He’s … different?”

“What do you mean? Is he sick? Tired? Not eating well? Have you noticed any injuries on him? Did you make sure to close the windows at night? There’s something out there targeting children, and we can’t risk him getting attacked by another monster.”

Dean flinched like he’d been struck and chewed on his lip before he continued.

“Uh, no, sir. It’s nothing like that. It’s just that … he doesn’t act like Sam. He’s mean. Like he isn’t my brother.”

John had a sudden memory of Sam sitting on the porch, all alone, his lip quivering, trying to put on a brave smile for his dad’s sake. 

“Is this about his little taunts at breakfast? Or something you told him, too? ‘Cause I found him on the porch, yesterday, and he looked like he’d cried. Wouldn’t tell me about it, of course. Tried not to get his big brother into trouble.” He gave Dean a hard look. “Not that you deserve it, telling him shit like that.”

“No, Dad, I didn’t. I swear. I would never make him cry, not like that. My job’s to take care of Sammy, to protect him. You know that. Right? It’s my job. But this … this isn’t Sammy. The things he said this morning … He’s mean, and it makes him happy when you’re angry at me. And he loves milk, all of a sudden. He’s not Sammy.”

Dean’s stumbling speech and his convoluted story of what was going on with Sammy were enough to make John’s head hurt. Not only that he had to deal with a difficult case and to worry about Sammy fitting the monster’s profile. Out of some stupid teenage rebellion, Dean suddenly had decided that Sam was unlikable. Next, he would announce that he couldn’t bother taking care of his brother, because _he wasn’t Sammy_.

John’s hand connected with Dean’s face, first the palm, then the back. The second blow split Dean’s lip and made it bleed, but John felt nothing but disgust for his good-for-nothing son. “You feel great, making your little brother cry?” He struck Dean again, even harder this time. “You’re disgusting, such a worthless piece of shit.” 

Dean’s shoulders slumped, and he ducked his head between them as if he was trying to disappear right in front of John’s eyes.

He was still too bruised from yesterday for another beating. After all, John still needed him fit enough to work his jobs around the house. But there were other means than corporal punishment to make an insolent soldier toe the line. With a hard shove, John sent Dean stumbling outside. “Go back to the house and change into your running gear. Three times to the park and back, with reports in between; and I hope to see you make those rounds in less than fifty-five. If you can’t treat your brother right, maybe you can at least work on your miserable endurance.”

Dean nodded wordlessly. The park was five miles from their house, and he would have to push himself hard to make each round in time. But then, that was just what John intended. It wouldn’t do for Dean to pick on Sammy.

***

Dean made it through the first round all right, but earned himself a set of hundred push-ups after the second round.

John and Sammy had started lunch while Dean was still at his third round. When he finally returned, panting and drenched in sweat, he was over ten minutes late.

“Done … with … round … three … sir.” He sucked air in huge gulps between the single words. 

“You call this ‘in time’?”

Dean straightened his back. “No, sir.”

“You should be nicer to me, Dean,” Sammy piped up. “Or Dad will find out and punish you. Don’t tell lies about me.”

John motioned toward the living room. “Another five sets of push-ups. Count them out. Over there, where I can see you.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean dropped down between the kitchen and the living room for John to observe his drill.

It was a miserable performance, and in the end, Dean didn’t make it in time to have lunch. When John told him to get under the shower and clean himself up before bringing the rock salt shells and the hemp rope from the shed up to the house, he didn’t ask about the skipped meal. He simply nodded, closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then he pushed himself up from the floor and walked out of the room.

***

John was deeply immersed in a new thread of research when Dean knocked on his bedroom door.

“You didn’t say where you wanted me to put the things from the shed, so I stacked them by the window in the living room.”

John cleared his throat. “Stow everything in the Impala’s trunk. I need it for the current job. You hear me?” 

Dean nodded. “Yes, sir.” But instead of turning to go and do as he was told, he lingered, shuffling his feet. “Dad? Can I talk to you about something? It’s important. Please?”

John nodded. Even though Dean was going through a stubborn phase, he still wanted to be there for the boy. But he wouldn’t tolerate any lies about Sammy. “What is it, Dean?”

Dean looked carefully around; as if he wanted to make sure they were alone. He lowered his voice. “Dad, please. I _know_ it sounds crazy. But you have to believe me. There _is_ something with Sam. He’s all wrong, Dad.”

His face reflected nothing but worry, and yet John felt a surge of irritation at Dean trying to cause trouble for his baby brother, in spite of having been taught the opposite. 

“I’m not trying to be disrespectful, sir.”

“You’re not? Then why’d you say something like this about Sammy if not to try and tattle on him. Even though you’ve already been punished for it.” 

Dean looked down, mortified. “It’s not like that.”

“Then how is it? You tell me!”

“He’s … I think he’s a changeling, or a siren. I can’t be sure which, but I know he’s bewitched you into hating me. He wants you to send me away … or beat me … until I’m gone.”

John gasped. The accusations were too wild to even consider believing Dean, who had obviously gone through John’s latest books and notes of research to come up with a story so crazy that he had no idea what had possessed the boy.

“This is outrageous. How dare you come to me with such a lie about your little brother? Don’t you know that you’re supposed to take care of him? To make sure he doesn’t get hurt? Not to mention that fact you went through my things while I was away.”

Dean shuddered but didn’t say a word, and only the crown of his head was there for John to guess what was going on in his eldest’s mind. 

“Enough! You’ve clearly forgotten the first rule of this family: stay loyal to each other.” John grabbed Dean by the arm and dragged him down the stairs, into the living room and toward the sofa. The paddle sat on the cupboard, and he snatched it on the way.

Down went Dean’s jeans and boxers, and John dragged him forward and over his lap, meeting no resistance other than Dean trying to keep his balance. John picked up the paddle. Dean didn’t deserve a warm-up, and John didn’t intend on giving him one. 

Dean submitted right from the first strike. He didn’t fight and tried to keep himself as still as possible, though he couldn’t prevent the occasional twist when the paddle hit a particularly tender spot, or the pained gasps that escaped his throat as the blows grew increasingly harder. And despite his physical display of acceptance, he still tried to argue his case.

“Dad, please, it’s the truth. Something isn’t right with Sam, and you’re not you either. But you won’t believe me. I’m not a liar, and I love Sammy, but you’ve got to help me, you’ve got to snap out of it. Sammy’s out there, and he needs us! Dad, please!”

John hit Dean harder still, deliberately placing several strikes on the same spot before he moved further down. Dean had to feel every single one of them searing into his skin. While before he had reacted to every blow with a distinct sound of pain, he was now sobbing constantly, even between blows. 

Dean didn’t just go limp over John’s lap. He additionally shifted his weight so that John had immediate access to his sit bones, submitting in a way John had never seen him do before. It was the kind of signal that told John what he was doing was right. He brought the paddle down again and again, until the color of Dean’s ass had changed from burning red to darkest purple. Dean howled with every stroke. 

Finally, John had to take a break to catch his breath. He was drenched in sweat, not just from physical exertion. He could smell the stink of his anger on his skin.

When John stopped the paddling, Dean lifted his head slightly. “Dad?” His voice was thick with tears. “Dad? Are you … Are you okay?”

John let out a growl. “Okay? How could I be okay when you force me to punish you like that?” And he lifted the paddle once more. 

Dean tensed, submission completely abandoned. “Dad, no! Please! This is … this isn’t you!”

John struck him again, and Dean struggled hard enough that he almost slid from John’s lap.

“I hate you. I wish CPS would come and take me. You’d get rid of me and stay with perfect Sammy!”

The outburst made John see red. Letting go of his last remaining restraints was easy, like sinking into a bathtub full of hot water. He stood. Dean slid from his lap to the floor like a ragdoll. He looked up, blinking dazedly at John like he couldn’t believe his luck. Well, John would show him. He grabbed Dean’s shoulder and pulled him up, dragged his stumbling son over into the kitchen, where he slammed Dean hard against the edge of the kitchen table. 

“I’ve had enough of your insolence and the hate you show your brother. It’s time to teach you some respect.”

Dean’s eyes went wide with shock, whereas the corners of his mouth curled up with an inexplicable mixture of hope and triumph. He didn’t struggle as John manhandled him until he was bent over the table, leaning on the tabletop with his hands and elbows for support. Dean’s feet were set apart against the legs of the table, his hips pressed against the tabletop, giving easy access to his ass and thighs. 

He only flinched when he heard the hiss of John’s belt being pulled free from the loops.

“You will stay there, no matter what, or else you’re going to wish that CPS would actually come and take you. Are we clear on that?”

“Yes. Sir.” Dean almost spat out the words. 

John regarded him for a moment. He stood perfectly in place, waiting for the belt to fall. Only the twitching muscles of his thighs betrayed his fear of what was coming. Well, John decided, he’d brought it on himself. John didn’t enjoy taking the belt to his son, no matter what Dean had implied. But Dean needed to understand that there was a chain of command, and that Sammy’s safety and well-being were most important. In both cases, Dean came second. 

John raised the belt and brought it down on Dean’s ass with a resounding crack. Dean turned his head to the side and buried his face into his arm, trying to stifle his howls of pain. After several licks he raised his head and twisted his neck enough to look John in the eye. His face was red and blotchy, streaked with tears, but his voice didn’t waver.

“I know you think this is all I’m good for. This, and cleaning up behind you and Sam.” 

John regarded him coldly. “You must clearly have a death wish.” 

He turned the belt over in his hands and let the buckle swing freely. When it met Dean’s skin, the boy fell forward onto the table with a scream, unable to muffle his pain in the crook of his arm any longer. 

A creak from the door, and John whipped around. 

Sammy stood in the kitchen door, his gaze fixed on the scene in front of him. His young face was unperturbed and his features relaxed, showing nothing but open curiosity. 

“Has Dean been a bad boy?” he asked. His voice sounded high and childlike. “Are you punishing him because he made me cry?” 

Dean made a choking sound, almost like a laugh. To John, it was all he needed to let himself slip into that haze of red and rage. This wasn’t about teaching Dean any more. This was all about protecting Sammy from his brother, about breaking Dean and beating him into complete submission. John let the belt fly high and whipped it down a second time, causing another scream from Dean. And then the next, and the next, and the next. 

Finally, the ache in his arms and diaphragm brought him back to his senses and forced him to pause. He’d lost count of how many times he’d struck Dean with the belt. In fact, he realized, he’d never counted at all. 

Dean hung over the table, sobbing openly, without restraint. His hands clutched at the sides of the tabletop to keep himself upright, since his legs almost refused to do the job, shaking and trembling so hard that his knees kept knocking against the table legs.

The sight was enough for John to come crashing down from his adrenalin-high. He loosened his grip, and the belt clattered to the floor, buckle first. Every visible inch on Dean’s body was covered with bloody welts and bruises ranging from darkest purple to fading green. John felt sick, and his heart was racing. What had he done?

“Dean?” He took a tentative step toward the table. Then another one. 

“Dad?” Dean’s voice was rough. Like he’d run forever without a sip of water. Like he’d fought a monster to the death. Like he’d been beaten within an inch of his life, screaming himself hoarse.

“Dad? Are you okay?” 

“Am I …?” 

What had he done? John carefully took Dean by the shoulders, put one arm around his boy to steady him while he helped him stand up and guided him away from the table and onto the ratty sofa, where he gently eased him into lying down on his side. What had he done?

“Dean, I’m, I’m sorry. I didn’t … I didn’t mean to—“ 

He broke off. Words. Nothing but empty words to cover up what he had done to his child. That he had beaten his boy without care or reason, like a drunkard acting out instead of a father who was fair and just and forgiving. What had he done?

“I … I know … I didn’t mean it, either … I’m sorry.” The same hoarse whisper, cracking on every word, and John should have given his boy water to drink, to moisten his throat. Why didn’t he think of that before?

“I’ll get you a glass of water. Wait here.” As if Dean was well enough to leave the sofa any time soon. John stroked Dean’s sweat-slicked hair away from his forehead and was almost up, when Dean spoke again.

“Wait, Dad.” Dean’s soft young hand searched and found his. “Don’t go. Please.”

“But you need—“

“Stay, please.” Dean’s hand trembled, and John turned his own hand and wrapped it around Dean’s.

“It’s all right. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

This was when he heard the laughter. High. Dancing. Like a devil-child at play.

Sam.

He had abandoned his place by the door and stepped forward into the living-room, and John _saw_ , saw the truth for the first time in days. The fiery glint in the child’s eyes, the bounce in his step, the malicious upward turn of the mouth. It wasn’t Sam. It wasn’t even a child. And it was now that John remembered a passage he’d read and forgotten, that he understood the full extent of what Dean had done, of how far his son had gone because John hadn’t been able to see it before. 

_The siren child will take the place of one in the family, preferably the most protected, and enchant the parent. It feeds on the abuse and neglect of the remaining siblings. Only the sacrifice of a real sibling will break the spell of the young siren over the parent._

Dean. And the eight kids currently admitted to the hospital probably too. Their parents seduced into abuse and neglect, lying about it through their teeth without even realizing what was going on.

John had killed the adult siren, but had failed to consider the possibility of the monster’s offspring. He had almost broken Dean, while Sammy was out there, somewhere, all alone, waiting to be rescued. John didn’t dare think of anything else. Sammy was in danger, but alive. And Dean had forced John to cross a terrible line in order to make him understand, had sacrificed himself willingly.

The Sam-thing sashayed toward them in the slithering parody of a little-boy bounce.

“Is Dean too bad to be corrected, Dad? Are you done with him?” It smiled at John, all big brown eyes and seduction, too young and inexperienced to understand its allure was broken and only served to make John sick to his stomach.

He had to force himself to answer with a smile of his own. “Yes, Sam.” He felt Dean tense beside him and pressed a reassuring hand into his back, hoping Dean would understand what he was trying to hide.

“Will you send him away? Will CPS come and take him?”

“Maybe?” John stood. “I’ve several calls to make.” He took a few steps toward the telephone by the window, swallowed hard. “Just you and me, Sam. What do you think?”

Again that vicious smile, the too-sharp teeth in his baby-boy’s mouth. 

And then he was by the window, but didn’t pick up the phone. His hands closed around the rope, two more steps and a few quick slings, and it was hissing, the rope cutting and burning its flesh. Hemp impregnated with holy water and salt. Held vampires, shifters and changelings all the same. Sirens, too.

He grabbed its hair and twisted its head backwards. “Where’s my son? What have you done with Sammy?”

John’s gaze flew toward his oldest. He should check on Dean, make sure he was okay. But Dean waved him off. 

“I’m fine, Dad. Go after Sammy.”

The thing hissed as he dragged it toward the bathroom. His hunting knife and more salt and holy water drove its voice to anguished shrieks, and John had to remind himself that this wasn’t Sammy, wasn’t his little boy. 

The shower curtain was flecked with blood when John finally got his answer. The thing was barely alive, just enough to equally hope and hurt and tell the truth.

He found Sammy, drugged or enchanted into a deep sleep, hidden away under the porch of their ramshackle house, unnoticed by any of them. His hair was full of dirt and dead leaves, and when John carried him back into the house he was light like a child who hadn’t eaten for several days in a row. 

John placed him on the sofa with Dean, and Dean immediately started checking him for wounds or other signs of maltreatment. 

Still in a haze of shock and hate, John walked right back into the bathroom, cut the thing’s throat, dragged the body outside behind the house and lit a fire. His hands hurt, his palms full of rope burns and the skin on his knuckles split open.

When he came back inside, Sam was awake on the couch, a plate full of Spaghetti-O’s in front of him. Dean shuffled in from the kitchen like an old man whose joints were stiff from the cold, but his gaze on Sam was warm and firm. He leaned against the doorframe, watching his little brother eat.

“I’m …” John started, and both his boys looked up and at him, and he found that he didn’t know how to finish his sentence. _Done? Sorry? An incompetent fool?_ Nothing seemed to cut it.

Dean saved him from the embarrassing silence. “Sammy woke up,” he said, “and he was hungry. So I made him dinner.”

“That’s … that’s good.” And, as an afterthought, knowing it wasn’t nearly enough, “You did good tonight. You’re … a good boy, Dean.”

Dean nodded, most likely too stunned to say anything, accepting the praise as the entire apology he was going to get. As if he knew that John couldn’t admit falling under a spell. It would shatter the fragile illusion that he could keep his children safe. 

Dean looked from John to Sam and then back to John, and the expression in his eyes was something John had never seen before, not even in the months after Mary had died. Like something precious had been taken from Dean and the hole had been filled with toxic waste. He had woken up and defined himself as the son who needed to be useful, whereas Sammy was the son who deserved to be loved unconditionally.

How the monster had been able to snatch Sam from under their noses, John still had no idea. All he knew was that more of them were still out there. He would have to train his boys harder, both Dean and Sam. He needed them prepared. Nausea warred with determination, and the air in the room felt too tight to breathe.

John went to the cupboard and poured himself a large glass of Jack. He briefly considered putting the bottle back and then decided against it. 

Dean’s eyes on him were huge and dark, attentive. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“Dean? Have you eaten anything?” 

Dean shook his head. “’M not hungry, Dad.”

Of course not. John felt his shoulders slump and forced himself to go through the motions. “It’s all right. When Sammy’s done, you both go to bed. Leave the plate, it doesn’t matter. Just drink some water, get some rest. And make sure you’ll dress those wounds on your legs.” 

He should do it. He should take care of Dean, soothe the hurt he’d caused. But he wasn’t even sure if Dean would welcome his touch.

John didn’t wait for Dean’s answer, opened the door, stepped outside and sat down heavily on the porch. He took a large swallow from his glass, and the alcohol burned going down, but by far not enough. After several minutes, he heard the stairs creak as the boys slowly made their way up to their room.

“What happened, Dean? Why are you hurt? Why isn’t Dad coming with us?”

“Not now, Sammy. I’m good. Let’s go sleep, and I’ll explain in the morning.” 

Their voices faded away and it felt like losing them over and over. If John could only hold them in his arms and tell them everything would be all right. But he couldn’t. Not after … Not with everything that was out there. Instead, he gritted his teeth and drank down the booze like medicine. But his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. When the glass was empty, he didn’t bother pouring another one, just continued straight from the bottle while he watched the night fall, and darkness grew all around him.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to celta_diabolica and reapertownusa for the detailed and thoughtful beta and all the encouraging words. They are both totally amazing!


End file.
